I don't know if someone will be interested in this. Few years ago, when I was regular on this forums (hope to be again
) a lot of people asked me about living in a war, because I am from small town that was heavily destroyed during war 1991-1995. Somehow, it's almost impossible to explane such things, and here's some kind of a try.
I'll just put here a first part, and if somebody will actually want me to continue, I will...
I deeply apologize for my translation, I'm sure there are some weird mistakes, but it's very very hard to translate something to a language that is not yours.
BACK THEN, WHEN WE WERE DEAD
1. Everybody hurts
The World has died.
Or maybe we died, and found ourselves in a world that we don't know.
Whatever was the truth, we had to start over.
Maybe it would be easier if we were somebody else, and not just scared kids.
Maybe it would be harder if we were somebody else, and not just kids that grew up too early and firmly decided that they will never show their fear.
Highway was endlessly empty and for the moment I thought about that summer night, when workers finally left, and I thought of us, sitting on a fence, watching still warm asphalt, shiny white lines and signposts with the names of cities on seaside.
Today, asphalt was still fresh, but white lines were dirty, not because of tires and traffic, but from dust that was falling on them for couple of thousand years, all the time from that summer, from First World, from that night when we were nothing else but bunch of 15-year old kids, smiling in a calm and peacefull summer night.
Down below, there was our town, and from a distance it looked just like a town we used to know. Only unbearable silence and a blinking yellow traffic lights were reminder that nothing is same anymore, that never will be, and that all that we can do is to try to start over, to forget about everything and to see if this new world can be nice as well. At least sometimes.
And sometimes it actually could. Covered with huge sadness that was unable to come out, terrifying fear that we childishly refused to let out, and the worst part - autistic vacuum in which we were falling from time to time, we found out that deep inside us there's also a whole microworld, only ours, and built by our rules.
One of those moments was now, on an empty highway, while Goga was sitting on a fence, with wind in her hair and sun in her eyes. She smiled, took some kind of twig, and started to draw invisible painting on dusty asphalt.
I was sitting on a same warm asphalt, Danijel and Marina were laughing, down below was our town, down below was a river, there were abandoned fields filled with wild blackberries, and far away, there was a smoke, rising to a sky.
On the right, through the humid air of July there were shivering images of shiny white UNPROFOR trucks and jeeps, barbed wire, and houses without roofs.
But, it was pleasant afternoon, and they were laughing when, just like in that video, I stood on a small wall between two highway lines, and started to sing "Everybody hurts".
We were laughing, and laughing...and then we suddenly got serious, looked each other, and somehow we knew that we love each other, that we understand each other, that maybe everything around is fucked up, but that it's us...that only here we are ourselves, and that only here we can be ourselves.
Sky was turnirng red.
- It's late, we have to go home - girls said, because our parent haven't understood that we are already dead, and that nothing can hurt us anymore. And they were especially scared of nights, like bombshells or bullets are more efficient in the dark.
They left, and over there, down the highway, their silhouttes were slowly disappearing until they became the one with the town.